


the only permanent thing

by sharkfish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Asexual Character, Bipolar Disorder, Demisexual Castiel (Supernatural), Demisexuality, Disabled Character, Headaches & Migraines, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 19:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19933117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkfish/pseuds/sharkfish
Summary: When Dean looks down, he’s shocked he hadn’t noticed it before. The bunting that has lived under the soft dip of his elbow his entire life, frozen in flight, is perched on a branch covered in leaves.The bird isn’t moving now, but sometime last night he did, and sometime last night he was given a place to rest.





	the only permanent thing

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to [jemariel](http://jemariel.tumblr.com), [suckerfordeansfreckles,](http://suckerfordeansfreckles.tumblr.com) [shealynn88](http://shealynn88.tumblr.com) and honestly probably other people since i started this story ages ago and just now got back to it. 
> 
> **“The only permanent thing is the soul,  
>  and what has happened to it.”**  
> (patrick kavanagh)

Dean wakes up and immediately starts praying for death. 

Charlie must’ve gotten him home, medicated, naked, and set up for the Morning After. The blackout curtain is pulled, but there’s still a sliver of sunlight there to stab open Dean’s brain. He pulls the blanket back over his head and takes a couple slow breaths before he can peek out at the pill bottle, water bottle, and box of crackers on his bedside table. Pill and most of the water bottle down the hatch, Dean pulls the blankets back over his head. Time starts rippling like this, in the dark, when the only thing that exists is the ebb and flow of pain, a neverending tide. 

It does end, eventually, or at least pull back long enough for Dean to sit up, chew some crackers that turn to chalk in his dry mouth, look at his phone. 

**Charlie:** ❤️️ On a scale of 1 to 10… 

**Dean:** Down to 80 now. Thanks

**Charlie:** You were out by the time I noticed, but did you look at your bird today? 

When Dean looks down, he’s shocked he hadn’t noticed it before. The bunting that has lived under the soft dip of his elbow his entire life, frozen in flight, is perched on a branch covered in leaves. 

The bird isn’t moving now, but sometime last night he did, and sometime last night he was given a place to rest. 

Dean stops breathing. His hand shakes as he touches the leaves, runs his fingertip along the branch, knotted and alive. His phone starts ringing — vibrating, thank god for Charlie — while he’s staring. 

Dean hits accept and says, “Holy shit.” 

“Dude, I know! I’m so pissed I didn’t see it until we got back to your place. Wait, hang up on me if you can’t talk.” 

“Just keep your voice down,” Dean says, still staring at the tattoo. He wonders how he can go about finding out what kind of tree it is. In the full tree, Dean’s bird would blend among the leaves, a flash of color like a trick of the eye. “Was it at the Roadhouse, you think?” 

“We didn’t go anywhere else. There and then your place,” Charlie says. “Can I put something on one of those ‘missed marks’ groups on Facebook?” 

Dean rolls his eyes even though it hurts. “Who uses Facebook anymore?” 

“About a billion people worldwide, one of whom probably has some dorky leaf tattoo.” 

Dean immediately feels the urge to protest, but swallows it down. The leaves are delicate with razor edges, verdant. Nothing dorky about them. “I’ll go back to the Roadhouse tonight. Maybe they’re looking too.” 

“That’s a terrible idea,” Charlie says. “You need to chill out in the dark and listen to a book or something.” 

“Don’t mother me.” 

“I’ll come to your home and chain you to your bed, Dean Winchester.” 

Dean scowls. “Whatever, I won’t go tonight. Put your thing on Facebook.” 

“You don’t seem very excited.” 

“Well, I’m not feeling so great, Charlotte. Text me later.” 

It was an ok date, as far as first dates go. Balthazar is kind of a snob, but in a funny, self-aware way, and his wine pick was good enough that they came back to his place with another bottle. They didn’t fuck and Cas took an Uber home, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable parting. Cas wouldn’t mind seeing him again. 

Cas barely gets out of his shoes and belt before pouring himself, limbs heavy with wine, into his bed. He sleeps hard and wakes up with a nasty taste in his mouth and the desperate urge to shower off all the nerves that ultimately ended up in a mediocre date. 

Cas stands under the hot water, mind wandering. When he was a kid, he and his siblings checked their marks every day, inspecting for the most minute of changes. A new freckle was cause for a herd of Shurleys to run screaming through the house. Some of them still do it into adulthood, but Cas stopped making any special effort to check his a long time ago. Trees mean solitude, and Cas likes to be alone. 

Despite not really looking, Cas sees the change immediately when he looks down. His body is familiar to him, and the bark of his ash tree has been traced by his own fingers a million times. 

The tree no longer stands tall and alone, unvisited but for the changing of seasons. There’s a small bird perched near the top, partially obscured by leaves, rainbow feathers full of magic. 

Cas stares at it for a long time. The jaguar on Balthazar’s neck had remained still throughout the evening, so it was someone else Cas had encountered the night before. 

The water goes cold and Cas rinses off as quick as he can. Even after he’s dressed and on to his second cup of coffee, he keeps pulling up his shirt to look at the bird. He wonders what someone with such a beautiful mark might look like, if they would be disappointed to wear Cas’s roots. 

When Dean is having a better day, he and Charlie go to the Roadhouse together, playing good cop/bad cop with the wait staff about who was in the bar on Friday. They don’t have any luck, and no one is responding to Charlie’s Facebook message, but Dean goes back to the Roadhouse several nights in a row, taking turns staring at the door versus staring at his bird. 

Nothing. 

Black spots have just started dancing in his eyes — goddammit, he knows better than to sit around with live music — when Dean pulls his car underneath the carport. He rushes through his evening routine, hoping to beat the pain, but he sees the change in the mirror while he’s brushing his teeth: his little bird, stretching his wings on Dean’s arm, head tilting this way and that as if looking around. 

Toothpaste dribbles from Dean’s mouth and onto the counter while he stares. The bird hops sideways on the branch, stretches his wings again like he’s ready to take flight, and then freezes, wings wide.

Dean spits, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and creeps through his house. He’s alone, all doors and windows still locked, and he can’t see anything when he looks out the front window, just a dark sleeping street, cars lined neatly up against the curb. 

The room spins, Dean stumbles and catches himself on the wall, then everything goes right-side up again. Some nights are harder than others, and this is one of the worst. 

Cas figures he’ll sleep with Balth. It’s their third date, and Cas’s weak attempts at finding his soulmate have proven futile. They end up back at Balth’s house with a bottle of wine, just like the first date, and Cas kisses Balth just inside the doorway. 

Balth’s bedroom is as opulently decorated as the rest of the house, and Cas grabs Balth’s hands as they are working on the buttons of his shirt. “I have scars,” Cas says. 

Balth arches an eyebrow. “What kind of scars?” 

“The kind I made myself.” 

Balth sits back on his heels, looking at Cas appraisingly. “You tried to kill yourself?” 

“No,” Cas says. Neither of them move to continue unbuttoning his shirt, but Balth’s eyes widen and he reaches to the jaguar on his neck. 

Cas looks down, pulling his shirt to the side to see what Balth caught a glimpse of. The leaves of Cas’s tree are swaying as if in the arms of a spring breeze. 

“It’s not you,” Cas says, finding control of his hands to button up his shirt. 

“Of course not,” Balth says. “What’s the radius on these things? Perhaps they live on this street.” 

Cas gets out of bed slowly, numbly, and walks outside, still in his socks. Part of him hopes he won’t find his soulmate at all, even as he walks all the way into the street, looking around. A cat peers back from underneath a car, and then a man stumbles into the shadows of the porch on the house next to Balth’s. 

He comes out into the light, and he’s in nothing but boxers, face pale and mouth pulled into a grimace. In the driveway he takes a second to close his eyes, leaning heavily against his car — a big, black beast of a machine — before raising his head to look at Cas. 

They each take a couple steps towards each other, and the bright-feathered bird on the other man’s arm is flying in circles around and around his wrist. He holds his arm up, as if Cas might have missed it, and says, “Yours…?” 

Cas pulls his shirt aside to show the blowing leaves. When Cas looks down, his bird is in flight, too, disappearing underneath Cas’s shirt on the other side. 

“Holy shit.” 

Cas nods, then forces his mouth open. “I’m — Cas.” 

“Dean. I —” Dean closes his eyes for a long moment. “I’m not feeling well, can we — later?” 

Cas steps closer, and Dean’s bird flies up his bicep, then swoops down across his belly and around his hip. “Can I help?” 

Dean shakes his head, winces, then turns and walks himself back into his house. Cas hurries after him, worried he might collapse, and Dean’s bird perches on the wing of his shoulder blade, watching Cas, all the way inside. 

Dean’s soulmate is a man, but he’s not sure of much else. It took a gargantuan force of will to get off the floor in the bathroom and make it out the door and by the time he tripped down the porch steps, his vision was mostly black. 

He saw the blowing leaves, though, on Cas’s chest, the bird flying across his collarbone, and the pain is worth it to not miss him again. Dean’s wondered what his soulmate’s name is his entire life, and now he knows:  _ Cas.  _

The cool tile of the bathroom is a vague, distant bliss against Dean’s cheek. The living room light is on, but the bathroom is dim. The fingers stroking gently through his hair are their own kind of bliss, and Dean focuses on that single sensation.

“Dean,” Cas says, and then more urgently,  _ “Dean.  _ Do I need to call 911?” 

“No,” Dean says. “Migraine.” 

“Can I stay? Or is there someone I can call?” 

Cas’s hand pulls away from Dean, like he suddenly realized how presumptuous his touch was, but Dean reaches out blindly and grabs his wrist. Cas’s arm is warm and feels like a lazy day floating the river, sun in his face, beer in his hand, smile on his mouth. 

Dean listens to Cas shift — he must be sitting against the counter now — and then Cas starts to stroke Dean’s hair again. It’s a healer’s touch, though maybe Cas doesn’t realize it. Dean’s not sure he feels  _ better,  _ but he must, because he squints open his eyes and pushes himself upright, back against the cool porcelain of the bathtub. 

“Hello,” Cas says, quietly, and Dean scoots closer to see his face in the dim light. 

Cas’s eyes are an endless, cloudless horizon, and Dean could spend the rest of his life lost in them, trying to find the name of the exact shade of blue, and his tentative smile is a sunrise. 

“Sorry,” Dean says. “For, you know. Me.” 

Cas touches Dean’s face, cupping his jaw, and Dean nuzzles into the touch like he’s been gasping for it his whole life. “I can’t believe…” Cas starts, then trails off, and Dean pulls away from his hand, closes his eyes against the sharp stab of his soulmate’s rejection. “You’re so beautiful,” Cas whispers. 

Cas’s bird — Dean’s bird on Cas’s skin — is perched on the knob of one of Cas’s collarbones and nosing through his feathers. When Dean looks down at his bird, it's starting to settle, crazed flight calming down to hopping back and forth on the tree branch —  _ Cas's _ tree branch — looped around Dean's forearm. 

“Can I help you to bed or at least get you a pillow?” Cas says. “I know we don’t know each other, but I’m concerned.” 

Dean half-smiles. “I’ve rode this rodeo before.” 

Dean pushes to his feet and feels Cas following into his bedroom. Dean collapses into bed and stretches a hand out to Cas. Dean always assumed the things they said about soulmates were exaggerations, the instant urge to be near each other, the comfort of their touch, a hole Dean didn’t know existed in his heart suddenly filled, but he knows now that it’s real. 

Cas comes nearer to the bed to take Dean’s hand but doesn’t climb in. “I need to get my things from Balthazar’s,” he says. 

“Your shoes?” Dean says, wry. 

“And my phone.” 

“That seems important.” 

After a flash of hesitation, Cas leans down and kisses Dean’s temple, brief and soft. “I’ll be right back.” 

Cas is worried, and he wonders if part of his unease with Balth was because something in him knew his soulmate was in pain just a house away. It tugs at him now, a need to take Dean’s pain into himself. 

Balth is in front of the tv with a glass of wine when Cas comes back in. Cas realizes he has no idea what to say. 

“You’ve come back for your belongings,” Balth says, but he doesn’t sound angry about it. 

“Yes, I — next door.” 

“I’ve met Dean,” Balth says. “He’s nicer than I am. Good-looking fellow. At least one of us will get laid tonight.” 

Cas frowns. “Sorry.” 

“You deserve happiness, Castiel,” Balth says. “I’m not sure you believe that.” 

Cas doesn’t know how to respond, so he grabs his phone and keys and shoes, says his goodnight, and walks back to Dean’s house in the glow of streetlights. It may look like a walk of shame, but for Cas it’s a walk of joy.

There’s just enough light in Dean’s house to make out the shapes of furniture, mismatched bookcases in the living room, funky art on the walls. It’s a well-loved home full of well-loved objects. Soon Dean’s heart will be the same, beloved despite its wear, and if Cas is lucky, Dean will feel similarly. 

If Cas isn’t lucky, he’ll take a bullet to the heart, buckshot buried in his lungs. He’ll never breathe right again. 

That doesn’t matter now, because Dean smiles when Cas comes back into his bedroom and reaches for him again. “Get in here. If you want?” 

“I do,” Cas says, quietly, because Dean is still haunted by pain. He reaches for his jeans, then pauses. Dean waves for him to get on with it and Cas bites his lip to contain a laugh while he kicks off his jeans. His shirt is half unbuttoned from his time with Balthazar, but before unbuttoning further, Cas says, “I have scars.” 

“So what?” 

It would be easier if Dean stopped watching him. Cas spends most of his life wearing shirts that cover most of the scars — tonight, a button-up with the sleeves rolled up just past his wrists — so it’s only lovers that see the worst of them. This time it’s Dean, his soulmate, whose judgment he’s waiting on, and it’s terrifying. 

Cas feels like a coward for looking away when he shrugs out of his shirt. With trial and error, he’s found the warning eases the awkwardness of it a little, but there’s still that moment of silence when someone realizes he’s crazy. Sometimes the reactions are hilarious, but Cas doesn’t want that from Dean.

“Mm,” Dean says, with no pause at all. “Come here.”

Dean scoots backwards so Cas can get into bed, facing him but not touching. “I’m pissed I have a migraine tonight,” Dean says. “I didn’t want to meet you… like this.” 

“May I touch you?” 

Dean rolls his eyes and grabs Cas’s hand, tugging him closer until they’re sharing a pillow, Cas’s hand on Dean’s hip and Dean’s fingers stroking the hair behind Cas’s ear. Cas worries that he won’t be able to help, but his fingers go numb instantly, a dull ache thudding up his arm. 

“Are you doing that?” Dean whispers. Cas can feel his breath, warm, but can barely make out his features. 

“I believe so,” Cas says. 

Dean’s eyes close and he lets out a long sigh, his whole body releasing tension. He moves just a little closer and tucks his head under Cas’s chin, arm squeezing him tight. Everything about Dean feels familiar — the tiniest bumps and marks under Cas’s fingertips, the freckles scattered on his shoulders, even the scent of him. 

The longer Cas touches, the more Dean relaxes, so he’s not surprised when Dean’s breath slows down into sleep. Cas wants that peace for him and keeps drawing the hurt out of Dean until his own joints are throbbing and his entire arm is numb. 

Cas knows why Dean looks so exhausted, because sleep is impossible like this, and it’s closer to morning than night when he finally falls asleep, the warmth of his soulmate in his arms. 

Dean isn’t entirely sure he remembers everything from the night before, but he’s not confused about where he is: his own bed, with Cas, who tried to cut his roots the same way Dean cut his, who has new roots now. 

Cas is wrapped around Dean, his chest pressed to Dean’s back, but Dean manages to carefully roll over without waking him. He spends a long time studying Cas’s face, the soft bow of his mouth, a curl of dark hair drifting down his forehead, the beard starting to come in after a couple days without a razor. 

Dean takes in the rest of him just as slowly. Cas’s warning makes sense now — his arms are covered in grey and purple slashes, fading out lower down. Dean knows a little about injuries that should see an ER but don’t, and it’s obvious these weren’t cared for. There’s almost no clear skin leftover. 

Dean feels Cas’s eyes on him, but can’t read his expression. “Good morning,” Dean whispers. 

“I haven’t done it in a long time.” 

“You don’t have to explain.” They stare at each other for another silent minute, and then Dean speaks. “I really need to brush my teeth but then — breakfast?” 

“Yes. Breakfast.” 

“I think I have an extra toothbrush. I’ll check.” 

“Thank you.” 

Dean smiles a little at Cas’s nervous stiffness. “Be right back,” he says, and then, because Cas did it the night before, gives Cas a quick forehead kiss on his way out of bed. 

Dean hands off a fresh toothbrush to Cas. “I put out a clean towel if you want a shower,” Dean says. “Do you drink coffee?” 

“By the gallon.” 

Dean laughs. “Good. How do you feel about pancakes?” 

“Positively.” 

“All right,” Dean says. “I can make that happen.” 

Cas hates the idea of being away from Dean, but he does take a quick shower, spending most of it staring down at his tree swaying in the wind, Dean’s bird fluttering from branch to branch. He regrets the thick scars severing the roots that snake around his hip. 

Cas pulls back on all of his clothes and finds Dean in the kitchen, still in nothing but his boxers with his bird soaring and swooping across his back while he stands at the counter. 

“Good morning,” Cas says, gruffer than he meant to, and batter flies off the spatula when Dean turns around, clearly startled. 

“Hey, Cas. You surprised me.” 

“I apologize,” Cas says, but Dean gives him a smile so it must be ok. “Are you feeling better?” 

“Yeah, I — I don’t know what you did, but I kinda thought I was going to be out for days with that one.” 

Cas’s body still aches, but it’s more than worth it to see Dean flushed and smiling. “I’m glad I could help.” 

Dean reaches backwards without looking to drop the spatula on the counter and takes three swift steps to stand in front of Cas, then he hesitates. “Can I — do you want to kiss me?” 

“Yes,” Cas says, and Dean lets out his breath, taking the final half-step closer and squeezing Cas’s hip before their lips meet. 

Dean’s mouth is as soft as it looks, and he tastes like Colombian dark roast. There’s no rush to it, and Cas is pretty sure he’s feeling the echo of Dean’s bliss beneath his skin as they move together. Cas imagined it overnight, and spent a lot of time imagining Dean hating Cas’s kisses, but didn’t hope for something like this. 

Dean pulls just a whisper away, his eyelashes still brushing against Cas’s cheek. “God, Cas,” he says, and the rough pleasure in his voice goes straight to Cas’s cock. “Am I dreaming? Can I sleep forever?” 

“I don’t think so,” Cas says. This close, Dean’s eyes are the same color as Cas’s leaves in spring. 

Dean gives him another kiss, short and full, ending with a smile, then goes back to his bowl of pancake batter. “Was I supposed to put on clothes?” 

“Oh, no,” Cas says. “You should be comfortable in your own home.” 

“I kinda wanted to see your tree again in the light. Maybe later?” 

“I need to run home after breakfast,” Cas says, and feels more than sees Dean’s shoulders tense. “But I could come back, if you’d like.” 

“I mean, I’m sure you have plans.” 

“I don’t,” Cas says, then thinks maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to reveal his complete lack of a social life. 

“Cool,” Dean says. “How do you like your eggs and bacon?” 

“Over easy, extra crispy.” 

“Excellent. There’s coffee, mugs in the cabinet above you.” 

Cas keeps sneaking glances at Dean as he sips his coffee. Dean blushes like he knows, but keeps his eyes on the stove, tense and silent. Cas is even tenser with feathers lodged in his throat. 

“You and Balthazar,” Dean says, flipping the pancakes. 

“Last night was our third mediocre date.” 

“Oh.” 

“I don’t want to see him again, at least not romantically,” Cas says. “Do you have… someone?” 

“No. My friend offered to pity marry me once, but she’s a lesbian.” 

It seems like it’s been a long time since Cas last laughed, so it surprises him enough that he feels the urge to hide it under his hand, but then Dean gives him a brilliant smile that he can’t help but return. Dean ducks his head and shoves a plate loaded with pancakes and eggs and bacon at Cas. “You took care of me, now I take care of you.” 

Cas cuts into his egg — yolk spills over the tines of his fork — but gets distracted watching Dean shovel food in his mouth. “Sorry,” Dean says, blushing again. “I’m always starving after a headache.” 

“No, by all means,” Cas says, and offers a smile. 

Dean smiles back, and his bird flutters just over his pulse, a place Cas imagines nuzzling and kissing, but he doesn’t quite let himself hope. 

Cas leaves. He’s awkward about it, even though they exchange phone numbers and Cas promises he’ll be back. 

Dean cleans up the kitchen. Takes a shower. Stands for a long time in front of the mirror, looking at where Cas’s branch has started to wind up Dean’s arm, wrapping around a bicep. Dean’s bird is still, but puffed up like he’s warm and content. 

Dean tries not to think about the way the leaves would die on his arm if Cas never came back. 

Luckily, Dean is only in the early stages of panic when his doorbell rings. Cas is in different clothes, another button-up with the sleeves rolled up his wrists, dark jeans, scuffed oxfords. Dean stares a beat too long. 

“You, uh, tryin’ to impress someone?” 

Cas looks down at himself, and then back up at Dean. “You.” 

Dean laughs. Cas’s answering smile is startlingly gorgeous. Without meaning to — both of them still standing in the doorway — Dean steps closer. Cas tilts his chin up, just barely, and accepts a kiss. A warm glow seeps from Dean’s lips down his body, and it gets brighter when Cas slides a hand into his hair, pulling him in for another kiss. 

“Can I see your tree?” Dean murmurs, stupidly nervous that Cas might say no. 

“Yours grew,” Cas says, looking down to watch his hand slide up Dean’s bicep to push up his sleeve. 

“Guess so.” 

“I didn’t know that could happen.” 

Dean shrugs. “I mean, my brother’s didn’t, but maybe he’s the weird one.” 

Cas laughs and pushes Dean into the house, following closely into the living room. Dean reaches for him, but Cas pushes again until Dean sits down on the couch, then starts to unbutton his shirt. 

The branches are crashing against each other, leaves blowing as if a tornado is forming, right after the quiet yellow-skyed stillness. The bird swoops in circles over the other side of Cas’s chest, and Dean’s must be matching his joyful flight. 

“Can I see the rest?” Dean says, because Cas’s shirt has fallen open to show his chest, part of the tree, but the rest of him is still covered. 

Cas hesitates, and Dean knows why, so he reaches to unbutton the last three buttons, pushing the shirt open to reveal Cas’s stomach, the roots of his tree stretching under the waistband of his jeans. 

There are thick gnarled scars cutting across the roots at Cas’s hip and side. The deep chocolate whorls of the trunk are interrupted by the scars, but they still seem right somehow, matching the twist of the wood. Dean leans forward and softly kisses each of the scars in turn, pushing the shirt back to reach them all. Cas is tense and not breathing, but he doesn’t stop him. 

When Dean’s done, he tugs at the bottom of the shirt. “Take it off.” 

Cas pulls each of the sleeves off and the shirt falls to the floor. He’s fucking gorgeous in the late morning light, the scars marching up his arms, some dark and some washed out, nearly invisible. Dean thinks they’re beautiful, except — 

Dean grabs Cas and twists his arm to show the delicate inside. “Those are new,” Dean says, pointing to the flesh that is only roughly stitched together with scar, looking like it’s ready to split at any moment. 

Cas jerks his arm away and bends over to grab at his shirt, but Dean wraps his hands around Cas’s hips and ducks his head to try to meet Cas’s eyes  _ “Cas,”  _ Dean says, very quietly. 

“I’m sorry,” Cas says. 

Dean squeezes, hoping Cas can feel the sunshine of Dean’s touch. “Come here,” Dean says, pulling Cas until he doesn’t have a choice but to straddle Dean’s thighs. Cas still doesn’t look at him. Dean doesn’t kiss him, but offers a little smile. “Hey.” 

“Hello.” 

“That didn’t come out right. I just — you said you hadn’t done it in a long time.” 

“I lied.” 

Cas isn’t breathing and neither is his tree, even the bird camouflaged among leaves. Dean says, “Kiss me.” 

Cas still hesitates like an idiot, but they’re drawn to each other. Cas’s mouth is pink and warm and soft and his hand is back in Dean’s hair, holding him close. 

“I’m really lucky,” Dean says, in between kisses. “Cuz my soulmate is fucking hot.” 

Cas’s forehead drops to Dean shoulder and he laughs, the tension suddenly leaving his body. When he lifts his head, he’s still smiling. “I suppose I’m lucky in that area as well.” 

“You think I’m cute, Cas?” Dean says with a cheeky grin. 

Cas tugs at Dean’s hair, and Dean’s breath catches. Cas’s eyes move over Dean’s face for a long moment, like memorizing the galaxy of freckles across his cheeks. Dean tries not to blush under the somber consideration, even while he’s wondering what he did to deserve being looked at like this. He wishes Cas would kiss him again. Dean knows how to kiss. 

“How old is your brother?” Cas says. 

Dean blinks. “Uh, Sam’s twenty-eight and Adam’s twenty-one.” 

“Have they found their soulmates?”

“Just Adam. He’s got a heart, like an anatomical one, and his girl’s got a stethoscope. Fucking weird, right?” 

“A stethoscope,” Cas repeats. 

“Supposedly.” 

Cas brushes his fingers down Dean’s throat, where Dean assumes his bird is perched. “I have a handful of siblings.” 

It seems weird to be doing a demographic history while Cas is shirtless in his lap, but touching Cas feels nice, and his voice is  _ really _ nice, and his tree is swaying gently now instead of caught in a storm. “Names?” Dean says. 

“From oldest to youngest: Gabriel, Michael, Luke, me, Anna and Hannah are twins.” 

_ “Anna  _ and  _ Hannah?”  _

“Better than ‘Castiel.’” 

“Castiel,” Dean says. It rolls sugar-light off his tongue. “Middle name?” 

“James. Yours?”

“John, which is my dad’s name. They couldn’t think of anything.” 

Cas and Dean are just far away enough to look at each other without crossed eyes, so Dean is distinctly aware when he licks his lips and Cas’s eyes follow. Cas’s gaze tracks back upwards, and he says, “How old are you?” 

“Thirty-two.” 

“Thirty-one.” 

“You like older men?” 

Cas rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“I’m digging the twenty questions thing, Castiel,” Dean says. “But it’s going to be difficult to continue with you in my lap.” 

“You put me here.” 

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, grabbing Cas’s hips and heaving him off to the side. “I thought we were heading towards the fucking part but it doesn’t seem like we are anymore, so you gotta stop grinding on my dick.” 

Cas laughs. “Do you find me distracting?” 

“Shut up,” Dean says, maneuvering Cas until he’s laid out on the couch, then tucking close to lay his head on Cas’s chest. It’s precarious, but Cas can’t fall if Dean holds him tight enough. “Next question.” 

“Last night — are you feeling better? Does that happen a lot?” 

“I’m ok, yeah. Sometimes it happens a lot and sometimes it doesn’t. The last few weeks have been rough.” Dean brushes his hand along Cas’s jaw, the warm scrape of his cheek. “When was the last time you cut yourself?” 

“The day before I — before my tree came alive.” 

“You don’t want a soulmate, do you?” Dean says, trying to sit up, but Cas’s arm tightens around him. 

“I want you,” Cas says, voice muffled from his face pressed in Dean’s hair. “But I don’t deserve you.” 

Dean laughs a little. “Don’t worry, you’ll change your mind on that soon enough.” 

“What do you do? Work, school?” 

“Just stupid electric stuff.” 

“I teach in the Religious Studies department at UT.” 

“Uh, so you’re a bible-thumping professor?” 

“Not at all. I was raised as an atheist, and I suppose it was my interest in understanding religion that led me here. I do teach classes about the Bible, but more from the perspective of mythological analysis.” 

“That’s good,” Dean says. “I’ve sinned a couple of times in my life.” 

“I’ve sinned plenty myself,” Cas says, and Dean can hear the smirk in his voice. “Your turn for a question.” 

“What’s fun for you, then? Reading the Bible?” 

“Ah,” Cas says. “This is embarrassing, but — birdwatching.” 

Dean sits up on his elbow to look down at Cas. Cas is smiling a little, but he’s blushing, too. “The universe is weird,” Dean says, smiling back. “Do you have a favorite bird?” 

“Ah,” Cas repeats. “I see a lot of — painted buntings.” 

Dean’s smile widens. “There’s this tree I planted in my yard,” Dean says. “You can probably guess.” 

“The universe is definitely weird,” Cas says, and leans up to give Dean a soft kiss. 

Dean traces Cas’s scars like he’s not even thinking about it while they talk. His voice is honey smooth, the pads of his fingers calloused. He even smells good, and Cas has never been enough to deserve him. 

“Hey,” Dean says, quietly, and Cas realizes he’s been silent for awhile. “You ok?” 

“Yes,” Cas says. The light has changed, and it glints off the gold in Dean’s hair. It feels like magic everywhere they’re touching. 

“Cas,” Dean whispers, and he’s sitting up enough for Cas to see his face, but Dean’s just staring at his mouth. “I really — wanna know what it’ll feel like.” 

“What what will feel like?” Cas says, even though he’s pretty sure what Dean means, because just a kiss was overwhelmingly intense, and he can’t imagine what Dean’s bare skin will feel like against his. 

“Your cock,” Dean says, and he probably means for it to sound coy, but instead he sounds breathless. 

“Are you asking me to fuck you?” 

Dean blushes. “Seems like it.” 

Cas traces the ball of his thumb over Dean’s lower lip, considering. He’s had a few partners before, but it’s always felt like it’s what he has to do to keep a relationship progressing. He’s never  _ wanted  _ the way he wants Dean, a way that burns like a nova under his skin. 

“Shit, I’m such a dick,” Dean says. “Are you ace? It’s cool if you’re ace.”

Cas smiles. “You’re very sweet.” 

Dean grumbles, “I’m not  _ sw—”  _

Cas puts his fingers over Dean’s mouth, cutting him off. “You are, and I do want to have sex with you.” 

Dean’s eyes squint into a smile. Cas pulls his fingers away, but only to replace them with his mouth, drawing Dean into a slow, warm kiss, Dean’s fingers clutching at Cas’s bicep. 

Cas tries to get one of his hands under Dean’s shirt but manages to lose his balance and topple off the side of the couch instead. Dean bursts into laughter, and then collapses, the cushions muffling his glee. 

“Thanks,” Cas says. “I appreciate that.” 

Dean turns his head so Cas can see half of him, the green sparkle of his eyes, the plush pink of his lips. “Sorry, baby. I can kiss it better if you want.” 

“Yes, you should kiss my broken tailbone after that.” 

Dean dangles off the side of the couch, which seems dangerous, but Cas doesn’t care when Dean’s mouth is against his. “I’m good with my tongue,” Dean murmurs. 

Twenty seconds ago it was a joke, and now it’s buzzing in Cas’s ears, the idea of Dean’s tongue working into him while he writhes in the sheets.

“I broke you,” Dean says, smiling. “Are you broken cuz you like that, or because you don’t?” 

“I’m not sure,” Cas says. “I haven’t done it before.” 

Dean kisses Cas again, still languid, but more tongue. “What do you like, then?” 

“I would like to go to your bed to reduce the chance of me taking an elbow to my sternum.” 

Dean’s laughter is bright, enchanting. “Injuring my soulmate the day after I meet him seems like a bad omen.” 

Cas sits up on his elbows. Dean is still half off the side of the couch, his hand on Cas’s chest over the tree, and somehow they’re just staring at each other, close enough Cas can see the sea glass in Dean’s eyes. 

“Come on,” Dean whispers, looking down to Cas’s mouth. “Bed.” 

Cas stumbles to his feet, then pulls Dean up and tugs him down the hallway. Dean’s hand touches the back of Cas’s neck as they walk, sweeps down his spine, probably following the flight of the bird. His touch is like the parting of the Red Sea, like a march towards safety. From behind, Cas’s scars aren’t visible. 

Cas hesitates before he goes down on the bed, then turns to face Dean. Dean doesn’t follow him, just stands at the end of the bed, towering over Cas. 

“Hey,” Dean says. “You ok? I dunno how to explain it but — you’re upset, or something. I can feel it.” 

Cas blinks. “You can feel what?” 

“That you’re, like, all negative. You were happy when we were on the couch, right? And now not so much.” 

“I’m afraid to disappoint you. Or both of us.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” Dean says, laughing and kneeing onto the bed to straddle Cas’s thighs. “We’re soulmates. We’ll figure it out. But we could wait, if you want.” 

The inside of Cas’s arm itches, but he keeps still other than the pounding of his heart. “Ok,” he says. “We’ll figure it out.” 

Dean’s hands, sliding up Cas’s sides to cup the curve of his ribs, drown Cas in a feeling of gratefulness and gladness. “I can feel you too,” Cas says. “It’s so — warm.” 

Dean leans down and kisses Cas’s stomach, wet with the scrape of teeth, and goosebumps scatter over Cas’s arms. That’s even warmer, like sunswept afternoons, and Cas reaches a hand to touch Dean’s hair without even meaning to. 

“Fuck, that feels good,” Dean says, continuing to kiss upward, mouth wandering over Cas’s tattoo and bare skin without rhyme. 

“Dean,” Cas gasps, and then Dean’s kissing him, and there’s no mistaking it for any of the other kisses in Cas’s life. Just Dean’s joy is overwhelming, and Cas loses track of the line between his bliss and Dean’s as they kiss. 

Dean rubs their cheeks together as he reaches down to undo the buckle on Cas’s belt. “No one told me it would be like this,” Dean says, and now he’s unbuttoning and unzipping, pulling off Cas to strip off his jeans and underwear, dropping his shirt, boxers, and jeans to the floor at the same time. 

Cas intends to respond — no one told him, either, or if they did, he assumed it was a fairytale, an imaginary  _ happily ever after _ — but he’s lost staring at all of Dean revealed. The leafed branch has spread, swooping across his collarbone, just under the neckline of a shirt. That’s the part Cas stares at longest, his own green on Dean’s golden skin, but the rest of Dean is almost as glorious, muscled like a man who works with his body, cock proud and pretty. 

Cas reaches for him and Dean climbs back in his lap obediently, but leans to the side to dig through a drawer for lube and a condom. “I’m clear,” Dean says, “but we should both get tested just to be sure, you know?” 

Cas nods, pretending like he can even parse that sentence with Dean’s skin under his hands. He’s pretty sure Dean’s bird is following his touch, swooping as Cas’s fingertips sweep upwards, across the wood along Dean’s collarbone and up his throat. 

“Can I?” Cas says, nodding towards the bottle of lube in Dean’s hand. 

Dean’s flush makes him even prettier, his smile a little shy, and he hands the lube over to Cas. 

“Do you want to ride me?” Cas says, forcing his voice steady as he pours onto his fingers. 

“God, yeah,” Dean says. “I need to kiss you.” 

Cas pulls Dean down into a kiss, wrapping an arm around Dean’s thigh and pressing a slick finger against Dean’s hole, not  _ in,  _ just gentle pressure like Cas likes at first, slowly circling. Cas hasn’t done this to someone else before, and he relishes at Dean’s soft whine when Cas barely presses his finger into him. 

Cas can’t decide if he should focus on his fingers slowly working Dean open, because he’d loathe to hurt him, or on kissing Dean like he deserves, but it’s hard not to think about how tight and hot Dean is, especially when he starts to ride down on Cas’s hand. 

“Cas,” Dean gasps against his mouth. “Please, baby, I need you.”

Cas fumbles around for the condom blindly, still kissing Dean, still two fingers deep in him. “Sorry,” Cas says when he finally finds it, but Dean just smiles and bumps their noses together. Cas slides his fingers out — slowly, he knows how weird it feels to be left suddenly empty — and rolls the condom on, still blind because Dean is kissing him again. 

Cas grabs Dean’s hip, and Dean shifts, starts to sink down on Cas’s cock without hesitation, and Cas breaks the kiss so he can watch Dean’s face. 

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean murmurs, his eyelashes fluttering across Cas’s cheek. 

Cas is glad Dean’s the one doing the work, because he can’t pull himself together enough to do anything but grip Dean’s hips, probably too tight. The gallop of their heartbeats feels like an incantation, like a binding spell. 

Cas knows what sex is like, and it’s not like this. Sex is sweaty and awkward, aching hip joints and jaw hinges, messy and generally a let-down, as far as ways to spend his free time go. With Dean, Cas never wants to stop. He wants to freeze time here, magic growing thick between them, sparks everywhere they’re touching. He wants enough time to think of the name of the color Dean fills him with. He wants Dean to be warm under his hands forever.

Dean likes sex a lot, but it’s never been like this. It’s never been so big, never made him feel so powerful. Him and Cas, powerful together, something cauterizing-hot between them. 

Cas is mostly still in a way that would worry Dean with anyone else, but he can feel that Cas is just overwhelmed with joy, stunned by it. Dean smiles against Cas’s mouth as he keeps rolling his hips, a slow tide washing ashore. 

Cas makes a little rough noise, and suddenly it’s a tsunami between them. Cas grabs Dean around the hips and flips him onto his back, pushes back into him without pause, Dean’s calf over his shoulder to tilt his hips up  _ just right. _

“Holy fuck, holy fuck,” Dean gasps, and Cas gives him a feral smile. 

Cas nuzzles against Dean’s shin, taking him deep and slow. Dean wants to keep watching him — Cas’s eyes, the glow of green around the edge, Cas’s magic colored like the leaves of his tree — but they flutter closed and he tips his head back, moaning and begging 

Cas drops Dean’s leg to kiss just below his ear and murmur, “Is it as good as you hoped?” 

“Jesus Christ,” Dean says, half-laughing, half-moaning. “You know it’s even better.” 

Cas laughs, and it’s already Dean’s favorite sound, and Dean scratches at his back and gasps, “Cas — fuck, fuck —  _ Cas”  _ when he comes. Dean’s never come without a hand on his cock before, but he and Cas are wound together so tightly he’s feeling being fucked by Cas along with the way Cas feels fucking him, and it’s like every nerve all over his body is firing pleasure in a loop. 

Cas makes a surprised noise, and then Dean feels his breath hitch against Dean’s ear as he comes. 

Neither of them move for a long time, Dean’s arms still tight around Cas’s shoulders, breathing in tandem. “Jesus, Cas,” Dean says, smiling and turning his head to kiss Cas’s cheek. “That was like — I’ve had — not a lot, but some, I guess — sex, but fuck, that was… insane.” 

Cas pushes himself up to look at Dean, and he’s fucking gorgeous with sweaty hair sticking to his forehead and a smile on his mouth, and he kisses Dean so gently, like they’re not both covered in Dean’s come. 

They’re staring at each other again long enough for Dean to say, “My hip’s starting to cramp.” 

Cas laughs. “My arm has been numb for awhile.” 

“Well, get off me,” Dean says, shoving at Cas until he tumbles to the side. Dean pulls the condom off before Cas can get settled, tosses it, and then presses up against Cas’s side, hugging him close. 

“Hello,” Cas says, turning to look at Dean. 

“Hey,” Dean says. “That was awesome.” 

“Yes, I found it enjoyable.” 

“‘Enjoyable,’” Dean says. “You’re kind of a sarcastic asshole.” 

“Sometimes,” Cas says. His grin lights up the room. 

They spend a lot of time together the first couple of weeks, and Cas doesn’t hesitate to stroke Dean’s hair and pull some of his pain into himself when he can see it getting bad. They laugh over Buzzfeed lists of  _ 50 Best Questions to Ask Your Soulmate  _ and watch a lot of bad movies and end up in bed more often than not and Cas finds out how positively sinful Dean’s mouth is. 

Some days are harder than others, and the center doesn’t always hold. Cas cancels his classes for the day and texts Dean to apologize for flaking on their plans, but he’s not feeling well and needs the evening to recover.

His phone rings an hour later. “Hey, baby,” Dean says. “What kind of soup do you like?”

Cas doesn’t bother to sit up from where he’s laid out on the couch, a show he’s seen before auto-playing in the background. “It’s not a ‘soup’ kind of unwell.” 

“Oh.” There’s a pause, and Dean says, “Let me come over. I can do that laying-on-of-hands thing.” 

“Dean —” 

“Please, Cas. You’ve got me all worried.” 

Cas closes his eyes. It’s too soon to be seen like this, but Dean does sound worried and it aches. “All right.” 

“I’ll try to get out of here at a reasonable time. I’ll text you, ok?” 

“Ok, sure.” 

Another pause, and Dean’s voice lowers, soft and quiet. “I miss you.” 

“We just met,” Cas says, trying to stop his eyes from burning. 

“Yeah, well,” Dean says. “I guess I’m kinda attached already.” 

Cas answers the door in sweatpants and a hoodie, the house dark behind him. “Hey,” Dean says, leaning forward to give him a quick kiss. “How are you?” 

“I’m fine. How are you?” 

Dean steps inside and shuts the door behind himself before wrapping his arms around Cas’s shoulders. Once he’s got a hand in Cas’s hair, he can feel it — a dark abyss, colored midnight and as cold as the deep ocean. 

“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean says, pulling him closer, hand sliding under his sweatshirt to press between the wings of his shoulder blades. His hand goes icy and numb immediately. “What the — you’re not fine.” 

“You shouldn’t touch me,” Cas says, but he presses his face into Dean’s chest, curling smaller against him. 

Dean’s arms loosen. “Because you don’t want me to, or —?” 

“Because I don’t want you to feel this.” 

“Well,” Dean says, relieved even though the cold is creeping up his arm. “I guess that’s too bad because I’m feeling anyway.” 

Cas laughs against Dean’s chest, and that’s a relief, too. 

“So this is, uh, what kind of unwell?” 

“‘Mentally ill’ unwell,” Cas says, letting out a deep, deflating sigh. 

“Ok.” Dean kisses his temple, squeezes him tight. “Let’s talk hierarchy of needs. Have you fed and watered yourself today?” 

“I don’t need you to mother me,” Cas says, but continues before Dean can reply, “but I could eat.” 

Cas’s sadness is huge, even with just their shoulders pressed together on the couch while they eat takeout. Not sharp like headaches, but inexorable and horrible, a yawning empty chasm. Dean takes what he can out of Cas, holding him close, but can’t absorb it all without falling into a pit himself. 

It’s worth it when Cas says, “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” Dean says, and kisses him gently. When he pulls back, the painted bunting is perched on the peeking knob of Cas’s collarbone, feathers fluffed. “You want me to stay tonight? I’ll make breakfast.” 

“I have early class tomorrow.” 

“I won’t even complain about getting up at the ass crack of dawn, just because you’re not feeling good.”

Cas laughs. Dean thinks it’s a good thing they’re soulmates, because he could really fall in love with him. 

By the next week, what started as a small branch on Dean’s forearm has climbed like a frantically-growing vine around his bicep, across his shoulder, and starting to fan out along the side of his neck. Cas wonders if he’s supposed to feel bad that he’s marking Dean so completely and visibly, but he’s seen Dean admiring it himself the same way he admires Cas’s tattoos. 

“We should just get together all our family at once. Like an engagement party.” Dean flushes and fumbles his words. “Not that — I know we’re not engaged. But like one.” 

Cas does his best to hold his voice steady. “Are you planning on breaking the bond?” 

“Jesus Christ, of course not.” 

“I would think the soulmate thing is a little more important than a marriage contract.” 

“Ok,” Dean says, smiling in the open, happy way he does just for Cas. “We’ll have a soulmate party. Soon, because Charlie’s driving me nuts asking about you.” 

“I haven’t told anyone. In case…” 

Dean strokes his thumb across the thick scars on Cas’s hip. “In case I wanted to break the bond?” 

Cas nods, says nothing. Dean’s so pretty in the morning light with his golden eyelashes and gentle touch, and Cas has never known true fear like the kind that followed a nightmare of Dean leaving the night before. 

“Well, I don’t. We’re both kinda fucked up, you know? But maybe that’s better, so we can take care of each other.” Dean kisses him, slow with no heat. “I feel pretty lucky. Some people’s soulmates suck.” 

Cas isn’t sure how to say that if he had known Dean was his soulmate, he would’ve done everything he could to find him. He would’ve worked harder to be deserving, to be worth loving. 

“Hey,” Dean says. Cas feels something glow in his touch, warm and adoring. “Seriously. I’m glad it’s you.” 

Cas touches the bird fluttering lazily on Dean’s chest. He wonders what his own marks have to say about him right now but doesn’t look down to find out. “I’m really glad it’s you, too. Even if we weren’t soulmates, I would still lo— even if we weren’t soulmates.” 

Dean grins and nuzzles against Cas’s cheek. “I love you too, you know.” 

Cas’s heart soars. 

**Author's Note:**

> [reallyelegantsharkfish](http://reallyelegantsharkfish.tumblr.com) on tumblr
> 
> i'm often not very good at answering comments due to a lack of emotional/mental energy, but please know that every comment and kudos is so precious to me. i'm glad you're here!


End file.
